Like the bush telegraph, word spread. The astronauts were there, racing on the beach, drinking in the bars. Fun of a special kind was bouncing around like hot, loud music. It was a place where anything could happen and probably would. The racing was serious. Al Shepard would eat up the miles in a Corvette. Scott Carpenter favoured a Shelby Cobra. Schirra preferred a Maserati. The ‘personality’ cars were customized and souped up. Brunettes and newly minted blondes appeared, the kind that lived in bars, wore high heels and not much else – and collected astronauts. The kind that were irresistible – except to John Glenn, of course.
It was a hard life being an astronaut, the main problem being that there might not be much of it. They watched rockets, which, with a persistent un-American lack of cooperation, exploded quite regularly. How was an astronaut at the peak of his health, taut in mind and body, to come to terms with that? Clearly Cocoa Beach was put there to solve this problem. At Cocoa Beach the astronauts could ‘live’, sampling every possible permutation of being pleasurably alive. Plenty of time left for sitting on top of an exploding rocket. Except, of course, for John Glenn.
John Glenn was different, like a knight of old; austere, abstemious, with a sense of purpose. As he ran on the beach clocking up the miles, keeping fit, he felt the motel morals were unhelpful to the astronauts’ image. He had heard that several of the high-heeled, long-haired lovelies had been quoted as saying ‘three down four to go’. As the eldest of the astronauts, he called a meeting to remind the other six that they represented America. They stood for wholesome manliness, honest labour, American motherhood and apple pie. This message was not always well received. Al Shepard asked on whose authority he was standing in judgement. Why exactly was he casting himself as leader of the group? The implication, of course, was that the leader, the most serious-minded among them, might be the first man in space.
And everyone in America knew that that would have to be soon, or the Soviet Union would prevail. The press fanned the flames with frequent jibes that the US could lose the race. Everyone on the Mercury project was working with Herculean dedication. As many as 13,000 people at McDonnell were labouring day and night. Holidays and weekends off were but a dim memory as von Braun’s team focused on bringing abstract plans to reality, struggling to complete tests on the Redstone. Everyone connected with space flight had got the message: a superhuman effort was needed to beat the Soviets. But 1960 was passing them by. The yellow and red leaves of autumn had fallen, to turn brown and wither, blown by chillier winds. The first suborbital flight with an astronaut originally set for October had been cancelled and cancelled again, while Khrushchev continued to boast about an imminent Soviet manned flight. Gilruth still aimed to test two unmanned Mercury-Redstone flights and, assuming all went well, launch an astronaut early in 1961. But this plan too was looking unlikely – the first US flight was now postponed until the spring of 1961 and its success rate was put by the air force at 75 per cent. The latest fiasco was the failed flight of the Mercury-Redstone on 21 November. This was a key step, the first launch of a Redstone rocket with a Mercury capsule attached. It became a moment of unbelievable tragicomedy.
The whole firmament of the rocket industry stars turned out for the big event. For von Braun, who had not been able to test the capsule and the rocket together at Huntsville, it was a critical test. The Redstone was meant to lift the 1-ton Mercury capsule 130 miles up into space and return it safely back to earth – a crucial stage in the process before an astronaut could attempt the fifteen-minute space flight. Gene Kranz recalls his immediate sense of disappointment when he first saw the Mercury-Redstone. The rocket, ‘far from seeming graceful in form, something you could love and rely on’, struck him as ‘stark, awkward, crude, a large black and white stove pipe atop a simple cradle’. The Mercury capsule was equally disappointing. ‘It squatted atop the rocket, black in colour and seemingly constructed of corrugated sheet metal.’ It was hard to imagine that this was ‘a rocket ship from a science fiction novel’, upon which the pride of America rested.
Everyone took their places for the launch; von Braun and the Huntsville team could see everything from the bunker. Bob Gilruth and Chris Kraft, the Flight Director, were in the Mercury control centre at the Cape, which could plot radar information about the position of the capsule during critical phases of launch, orbit and re-entry from tracking stations around the world. The tense countdown reached zero. The engine ignited with customary fury, blazing out fire and smoke beneath the rocket. Then, faster than the eye could trace, it appeared to take off, racing away confidently, too fast for the camera to catch.
Yet in Mercury control, Chris Kraft and his team could clearly see that the rocket was still sitting on the pad, having barely lifted 4 inches, the Mercury capsule surmounting it. So what was whizzing through the heavens? Whatever it was that had shot skyward so dramatically began to make the return journey, after reaching a height of several thousand feet. And it was evidently going to fall quite nearby. People began to run in disarray as the unknown object landed on the beach with an ominous thud – and still the drama wasn’t over.
The assembled VIPs and glitterati eyed the reluctant rocket waiting for the great moment on the pad, smoke still whipping from under it. As they looked, a loud bang came from the top of the Mercury capsule and out popped a small parachute, opening as in a magician’s trick. Gently, softly, it fell to earth, pulling the main capsule parachute with it, draping the coy and unwilling rocket in bridal white.
The assembled company were now facing an exceedingly dangerous situation. Thousands of gallons of volatile fluid wrapped in thin steel were centre stage. The worry was, what would the rocket do next? Would the parachute, dancing about with the wind in it, drag the great cylinder, gorged with fuel, from its precarious upright position into an explosive dance of death? At the height of the emergency, von Braun’s team lapsed into German. This was the last straw for Chris Kraft, who went over and yanked the headset from one offending German engineer: ‘Speak to me, dammit,’ he yelled and later turned to a friend to vent his fury. ‘Those damn Germans still have not learned who they work for!’
A sort of frozen anxiety took over. Someone with limited understanding of the situation advised hiring a crack shot to shoot holes in the rocket and drain its tanks. Suggestions came and went and eventually a decision was taken to do nothing. The heat of the day would warm up the fuel which would vent through the escape valves. The clamouring press soon notched up yet another American failure. ‘What if there was an astronaut in the capsule,’ they asked. ‘Would you still be sitting here waiting for the fuel to evaporate?’ ‘The United States’ hopes of rocketing a man into space early next year were dealt a crushing blow today by the third straight failure of an unmanned space capsule launching,’ declared the New York Times the next day. ‘The failure may have cost this nation our last chance to beat the Soviet Union in the race to send a man aloft.’
The cause of the failure of the Mercury-Redstone proved to be trivial. A connection had shorted and set off a confusing list of instructions that effectively triggered the abort sequence. Even before the rocket left the pad, a spurious electrical glitch sent a signal to the engines that they had come to the end of their prescribed burn time, and they shut down. This, in turn, triggered a confused response from the capsule’s escape tower which was released and shot several thousand feet high before falling back to earth. Later it was found that the faulty connection was caused by an engineer who had filed down an electrical contact by a mere quarter of an inch so that a recalcitrant plug would fit in its socket.
Despite the endless setbacks, behind the scenes plans were being finalized for the first manned flight. The question was – who should go first? As the astronauts eyed each other up, it was difficult to assess who would be ‘the one’ who made history. The press and public had more or less decided that John Glenn should be first. He was the serious-minded, church-going hero who from the cradle had set his feet on this course. It was inevitab
le. He would be the one with the cool head and the calm ability to ride those eternal skies and smile his wise smile at the adulation when the job was done. Bob Gilruth, however, asked the astronauts themselves to choose. He asked them to cast a vote as to who should go first, if they couldn’t go themselves. Nobody chose John Glenn. Perhaps the lectures at Cocoa Beach had played their part. Perhaps he wasn’t one of the inner circle, his sense of responsibility disqualifying him from the forbidden fun.
On 19 January 1961, Bob Gilruth announced his choice. They were all good men but Alan Shepard would be ‘the one’ to go on the first trip. Gus Grissom would be the second and John Glenn would be backup to them both. Alan Shepard, the man’s man, and also the ladies’ man – the fastest driver, the hardest drinker and all-round favourite – was to fly the twentieth century’s ultimate airship. Bob Gilruth explained that the decision would not be made known to the public. They would no doubt continue to bet on John Glenn and he would have to smile his way through the charade as though they were right.
The next crucial stage was to test the Mercury-Redstone with a chimpanzee as passenger at the end of January – and if this was a success, the way would be clear for a manned flight. Several chimps had been in training for some months at the Holloman Air Force Base at White Sands. Chimp ‘No. 65’ was considered ideal astronaut material – he was not yet permitted a name since this might give him too much personal profile. Brought over from Africa when he was quite young, No. 65 had soon found himself in a school where there was a distinct emphasis on punishment. The tutors were obsessed with it. In their immaculate white coats, sporting a stick or length of rubber hose, their demands were law. Failures to fulfil their requirements or the odd attempt at escape were met with memorable hostility. In spite of these hazards, No. 65 was particularly clever at making it clear that the weightlessness training, the centrifuge and the ‘increased gravity’ trick he was not doing from choice.
The main emphasis in the chimps’ education was on ‘operant conditioning’. This system rewarded correct behaviour and punished mistakes. No. 65’s efforts to please his tutors’ demands for him to push certain combinations of buttons and levers correctly were rewarded with banana pellets. If he lost concentration and made a mistake, the inscrutable tutor was quick to shoot electric bolts through his sensitive feet. The astronauts’ doctors were assuming that if a chimp could cope with the rigours of space, concentrate on a correct sequence of button pushing and come back sane, then so could a human astronaut.
The chance to make history came to the reluctant chimp on 31 January 1961. He was wired up with every kind of sensor on and inside his body. The electric clamps were attached to his feet. He was strapped to his seat and transferred to the Mercury capsule. The countdown began. With an air of boredom, the amber eyes of No. 65 took in what looked like the familiar surroundings of his training capsule. He appeared relaxed as he sat on top of thousands of gallons of highly inflammable fuel 90 feet up in the air – evidently another session with the banana pellets. He had learned how to avoid the shocks.
Off went the rocket at an insane rate, going too fast, using up fuel ahead of schedule. The escape tower fired as if it were an abort, driving the Mercury capsule further than intended, as though the devil were chasing it. Unknown to the chimp, there was a fault in the electrical equipment. The punishment/reward system was faulty. For No. 65 the trip was a chastening experience. He could cope with the weightlessness and the very high 17g’s of gravity which flattened him like a cartoon character meeting a steamroller. But no matter how brilliant he was at pushing his buttons and levers – he achieved Olympic standard in trying to avoid the horrible zizzing in his feet – to no avail. He received electric shocks all the way.
The capsule went higher and further than was intended that day – No. 65 banged frantically on his levers all the way – before it was walloped down into the ocean 130 miles off course. He sat in his chair topsy-turvy, watching the water rise in the capsule. The demanding buttons and levers were now quiet but the water continued to rise. One and a half hours later, the navy collected the capsule, saving him from a watery grave – just. Since he had survived, No. 65 was officially permitted to have a name: Ham. Later, at his debut with the press, Ham made his complaints known. The one apple he had been given was obviously a paltry recompense for proving that a chimp could do an astronaut’s job, even with his feet on fire.
Analysis soon showed that several things had gone wrong on Ham’s flight. The fuel flow rate to the combustion chamber was too fast. Consequently the rocket rose too quickly, using up too much fuel and flying too high, 157 instead of 115 miles. The angle had been steep, sending it off course. A faulty valve had released the pressurized oxygen in the capsule. There was a vibration problem. And Ham himself had experienced 17g’s – close to g-loc – the point at which he would lose consciousness and eventually die. Nonetheless, Bob Gilruth, Max Faget and other key members of the Space Task Group were pleased that Ham had survived and determined that the next launch, planned for 24 March, could be Al Shepard’s. Von Braun was not so sure. He summoned his core team and each member was asked whether he thought it was safe to go for a manned flight. The odds of a successful mission, he explained, were between 88 and 98 per cent. If they delayed, the Soviets could win. If they went ahead and suffered a fatality, the entire enterprise could be destroyed.
Von Braun wanted a unanimous decision. Only one person objected – Kurt Debus, who played a key role in launch proceedings at the Cape. He argued that the vehicle should be proved safe beyond doubt, convinced there should be a perfect Mercury-Redstone flight before the life of an astronaut could be put at risk. Where would the space programme be if there was a fatal accident? Von Braun respected his decision and informed NASA authorities they had to have one more flight. Al Shepard was furious when he heard the news and urged Chris Kraft to overrule von Braun. But he did not. ‘When it comes to rockets, Wernher is king!’ Kraft told Shepard.
Secretly Kraft was fuming. ‘We had a timid German fouling our plans from inside!’ he raged. The manned flight was now set for 25 April. They were all aware that the decision could cost America the chance to win the race.
By November, with repercussions from the Nedelin disaster and technical problems with the Vostok, it was apparent that Korolev’s first piloted launch, provisionally pencilled in for December 1960, had to be postponed until at least February. Although Korolev’s work on the R-7 and the Vostok were not directly affected by Nedelin’s death, delays did ensue as many of the now depleted design bureaus, such as Glushko’s, were also involved in the space effort. And the problems continued. On 1 December, two dogs, Pchelka and Mushka, along with scientific instruments for studying radiation, successfully followed the orbit intended for a manned flight. After seventeen orbits, however, the retro engines were fired but they fired for too short a time, which meant the Vostok would not land on Soviet soil. The Soviet need for obscuring everything under a thick shroud of secrecy led to a decision to explode the capsule on re-entry using a mechanism already installed. The dogs were sacrificed rather than allow the capsule to fall into foreign hands.
The faults were corrected and on 22 December two more dogs were sent into space. This time the upper-stage booster engine failed. The capsule separated from the rocket to land in the deep snow and bitter cold of remote Siberia, where some days later it was found, the dogs still alive. Built into the capsule was an explosive device designed to detonate after sixty hours. As more than sixty hours had passed, the rescue team approached with caution, wallowing in the fresh snowdrifts. They successfully defused it and found two very cold dogs. The capsule arrived back at Baikonur in January with a list of faults that further deferred manned flight. The ejection seat had jammed, remaining in the capsule and causing damage. The two pods in the Vostok designed to separate on re-entry did not separate until the heat of re-entry burned the connection. The self-destruct system had also failed.
There were now more failures to list
than successes. Certain that the Americans were close to launching a man into a suborbital flight, Korolev could not rest from the pace he had set himself. With the imminent approach of the first Soviet launch, the twenty short-listed cosmonauts were asked the same question that Gilruth had asked the American astronauts: who should be the first one to fly assuming that you cannot? Seventeen of them named Gagarin, commenting positively on his character and ability. General Kamanin narrowed the group down to a short list of six, including Gherman Titov and Yuri Gagarin.
According to Korolev’s biographer Aleksandr Romanov, the cosmonauts, aware of the endless difficulties, decided to go and speak to Korolev, who met them somewhat anxiously, waiting to see what they would say. But far from suggesting that it was too dangerous to fly, Gagarin reasoned that had there been a man on board, all the launches would have ended in success. If the automatic system had failed, Gagarin explained, he would have switched to manual. Korolev was heartened. He thanked them for their belief in him and their dedication, but insisted he would not send them into space until he was 100 per cent sure of the outcome.
It was hoped that two more automated tests in March would right the problems. The first one on 9 March collected a motley crew into the Vostok craft. As well as Blackie, the dog, there were eighty mice, guinea pigs and various reptiles. A man-sized dummy accompanied them reclining languidly in the ejection seat. He was made to look as lifelike as possible, complete with mouth, eyes, eyebrows, ‘even eyelashes’, recalled Mark Gallai, an acclaimed test pilot who was advising on cosmonaut training. In their enthusiasm, rather than waste space the scientists stuffed the dummy’s hollow body and limbs with yet more mice and guinea pigs. Then for decency’s sake they covered him with a white smock and gave him a name: Ivan Ivanovich. ‘There really was something deathly unpleasant in the mannequin sitting in front of us,’ continues Gallai. ‘Probably it is not good to make a non-human so much like a human being.’
Space Race Page 26
